I Could Have Been More
by Flatlander
Summary: What if Cromartie was "stopped" before he could interrupt John and Cameron? One wonders how well they'd get it on. More details inside. Obviously John/Cameron, with some of Cam's developmental process integrated. R&R please, and enjoy!
1. Insertion

**Author: Hello again! Basically, while writing The Path of the Savior, I decided to spend thirty minutes of my time starting a little project where Cameron defeats Cromartie before meeting up with John. In essence, she gets closer to him, making a normal pairing possible! ****This usage of her pilot-ep personality does not preclude seeing her develop as a person****, though. She gets more and more awkward as she spends time around John, but since they're both weird kids, and since she's so damn pretty regardless, it's all right with him. In order not to tip him or Sarah off, she tries to act more normal.  
**

**The computer-industry stuff is just for fun. I do not see the Sandy Bridge microarchitecture really evolving into a Terminator CPU.**

**The title of the story? Well, it refers to a rather predictable twist/truth about the story. That's all you need to know.**

**This is multi-chapter! :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own TSCC. I do not own Intel. I do not own Microsoft. And I shall destroy Microsoft personally if they do some shit like DirectGL. **

* * *

**I Could Have Been More  
**

In the little high school's locker room, the girl stood over the scary-looking guy's motionless body, and presently she scraped at the top of his skull with a large knife, revealing a shiny section of silvery metal. As soon as a circular groove came into view, she slipped the blade into the black line and popped an air seal. Tossing the knife away as soon as the little disc was off, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of needlenose pliers. Clamping the nose onto a raised tab beneath the seal, she made a strong counterclockwise twist with her wrist, and the whirring death of some capacitors signified the end of her job. She pulled out a superconducting die which was built on a 1.5-nanometer Intel fabrication process, was probably derived from the Sandy Bridge architecture, and included such features as an integrated micro-SSD with nearly null access times, and distributed onboard memory controllers. It also carried an LGA-57 horizontal CPU interface with contacts made of the same superconducting material as the die. Such a thing was to be praised for the intricacies of its design, but the girl seemed not to care what such things were capable of, and in a most unceremonious fashion, crushed the CPU beneath her foot.

The girl got her massive bag, stripped naked, and entered the showers. She extracted a loofah, soap, and some shampoo from the very large bag, and cleaned herself of blood and dirt. It didn't take much effort; she kept herself mostly pristine through her little adventure with the CPU man.

After the deed was done, she went to a nearby janitor's closet and, from the depths of her bag, removed a roll of thermite-derived film and a blasting cap-like assembly. She dragged the body over when no one was in sight, tossed it in, and locked the door behind her. Wrapping the thing in the film, and connecting the cap charge to it and attaching its corresponding electrical trigger, she walked a few meters away, and then set off the charge, resulting in a beautiful, white illumination of the high-temperature persuasion. The body's skeleton melted into a blackish, twisted hulk, while its skin charred into carbon ash.

When all had cooled, a bucket of white paint turned the still-humanoid disassembly into a prime exemplar of modern art, and she hoisted the heavy thing up, leaning it against a wall and hanging a sign on it, reading "Millennium Art: 1999's Venus de Milo."

It was a good job altogether, and she had not stained her clothes with white paint. She still had a Chemistry class to go to, after all.

* * *

It was a good job altogether indeed. Someone commented on how good the art was, but that didn't really concern her. Rather, the matter at hand was the boy whose attention she'd called.

"What's your name?" she asked, trying to keep her voice down.

"John," the boy answered.

"Cameron," she responded with a smile.

"No talking while I'm talking," the teacher, Mr. Ferguson said. She must've been way too loud, or he must have had superlatively good hearing; she'd note that down for later reference. Anyway, she didn't attempt any further contact, since the snickers that followed probably spelled a lot of embarrassment for the guy, and she didn't want to alienate him.

"John?" she asked as she caught up with him right after the class.

"Hey," came his response.

"I haven't seen you around here before. Did you just move here?" They were walking to his locker now.

"Yeah."

She laughed. "Sucks for you." Thinking of something to say, she asked something personal. "My dad sells tractors. What about yours?" It was quite upfront, really, but it was okay.

"Insurance," John replied.

"Really? What kind?"

"The boring kind."

She laughed again. "That's the kind of tractors my dad sells. What about your mom?" He seemed responsive to this sort of stuff, so she tried again, but that didn't work that well. He seemed to be quiet, and averted his gaze from hers. "My mom just stays home."

"You know, I've really got to get to the next class, so…" His voice trailed off.

"So…" she continued for him. "Maybe I'll see you later?" She added a tiny bit of hope to her voice.

"Sure, yeah." His response seemed concessive rather than excited.

"Okay. Bye." She smiled back at him, and walked away. It was to be expected, really. The kid John Connor would thus have been trained by his mom not to trust just anyone he met. Oh well, at least now that the 'substitute teacher' was out of commission, maybe she'd get into his life more deeply as time went on. This iteration of the timeline that did not include Cromartie interrupting her time with John, it could lead to many things. Maybe that specialized humanistic infiltration program of hers (which had lots of smiles) could be kept up for a little longer now.

* * *

**:**SkyBIOS 41.3 build TOK-715…loading higher-level CPU functions…

**:**Memtest? 99641 random quads tested for integrity. 100 percent functionality.

**:**S.M.A.R.T. active on physical drives C: (memory), D: (objectives), E: (advanced programming), F: (learning mode cache), G: (parity disk for RAID array). All drives test positive. RAID 4 is active.

**:**Loading primary machine consciousness…done!

**:**Using human-readable registry output. Adding legacy "choice" buffer for reference purposes only. /COMMENT: If no choice buffer appears, contact Cyber Research Systems OR Skynet Automated Help Desk for tech support./

**:**Localversion does not match latest.

**:**No wireless IPX networks detected. No 802.11b/g/n/x networks detected. No 2.4 GHz radio BlueTWOth networks detected. No micro-HDMI plugged into output. No USB 4.1 ports active. No USB mass storage devices active. All PCIe 4.0 buses are in use.

**:**Loading display: © 2011 nVIDIA Corporation. GeForce™, nView ™, nHUD™ and other trademarks are property of nVIDIA Corporation.

**:**Loading display: DirectGL™ is a trademark of Microsoft Corporation.

**:**Display objectives? y/n **y**

--PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: Protect John Connor.--

--SECONDARY OBJECTIVE 1: Meet Sarah Connor

--SECONDARY OBJECTIVE 2: Acquire Sarah Connor's approval

--SECONDARY OBJECTIVE 3: **Date John Connor.**

**:**Explain SECONDARY OBJECTIVE 3

--**Date John Connor.** Purpose? Dating John Connor will allow unit to get closer to him, facilitating primary objective "Protect John Connor."

Oh, she'll definitely fulfill Secondary Objective 3.


	2. This Is Where It All Begins

**Author: And here we go! Right after "The Path of the Savior" comes a chapter in this silly fic. I've changed the classification from Romance/Drama to Romance/Humor because of little elements of funny here and there that I'm trying to incorporate. **

**The computer scene here is derived from the pilot deleted scene. So far, all dialogue in these past two chapters have been script-accurate, word-for-word recreations of the episode stuff, but as the last sentence says, "This is where it all begins." After this, interactions between the two will be original.**

**I made up the idea of Cameron building little shacks wherever she goes.**

**Hope you enjoy this one! Next up: TPotS chap 3. I think.**

* * *

Cameron did not see John again after they parted ways, which made her consider that he was avoiding her. Did her infiltration program fail, and was he somehow tipped off by her behavior? She tracked him to his Mathematics class which she didn't share with him, and looked on during a "restroom break." The class was having a quiz, and his paper was full of errors. For example, his solution to a certain algebra problem involved a quadratic formula which looked like this:

X(-b-sqrt(-b²-2bc))/3a

That didn't look right. That looked so freakin' wrong that Cameron had to refresh her HUD output's drawing window to clear the error messages on the sides. She wanted to go in there and correct him, but she had to get back to History. She couldn't get frustrated by the class, but anyone else in her position would; she knew every event that the teacher described as though it were part of her self-diagnostic tests, and boring as he was, the teacher didn't even give any subjective questions about the topics.

When History was done, she made her way to Computer class, and she found it a very curious thing to be playing with 1999 technology that wasn't even up to the standards of 1999. While most other consumers were busy with Windows 98 and the glory of the Internet, this little "hick town" was on green-text computational jalopies that probably didn't have the processing power to play a MIDI file on a legacy GS Wavetable. It was a good thing that this Computer class dealt primarily with how computers worked _in general_, not how to use them – because learning how to use ancient workstations with nary a GUI wasn't really useful when Windows fucking 3.1 existed in the early 1990's, right?

To her surprise – or her equivalent thereof – she found John there, working on one of the computers. Without alerting him, and making sure that her reflection wasn't in the monitor – she was good at that sort of stuff – she looked over his shoulder and zoomed in onto what he was doing. To her surprise again – or, again, her equivalent thereof – she saw him typing her name on a schedule search in the student database. There she saw her schedule appear – and a picture of her? Weren't these computers supposed to be so weak that they couldn't even display 256-color bitmaps?

"You're full of secrets," she said in an oddly coy manner. This made him go all "Huh?" and turn around to see the source of the voice that had just rang out. "You didn't tell me you were in this class," she said with a smile as she put her bag down and sat at her computer. As she did, she noticed that his computer was suddenly blessed with a GUI of Windows 98. Oh. So they did have it then. Why were they using that silly command-prompt archaic shit?

"Are you good with them?" she asked him, even though she knew the answer.

"I'm okay, I guess…" _She's pretty_, _yes she is_, went John's thoughts. _Following me around, too. But really – like some hot girl like her wants to make friends with the new weird kid, right? Could it be a ploy to embarrass me? _Apprehension and cynicism to the rescue!

"They scare the heck out of me, if you wanna know the truth." She made her own image vulnerable in at least one regard to him now, and she mimicked what she understood to be an uneasy but light laugh as she spoke. "Do you want to get together after school sometime?" Well _that_ was forward. "Maybe help me with this computer stuff?" She widened her eyes and made a little mock grimace.

John opened his mouth to say something. Anything: "Yes, I'd love that." Alternatively, "I don't have anything better to do." Or even, "How about now? I can help you now." But John was A) apprehensive and cynical, B) something of a pussy, and C) a mama's boy. So his real answer was:

"I really can't, I'm sorry." _Fuck, it, John. What the fuckity-fuck is wrong with you? A hot girl is trying to get close to you and you flip her off with some rejection shit based on stereotypes and unfounded fears?_

Cameron's smile faded into a frown, and her eyes fell. "Oh."

"No, I'd really like to," John quickly said, trying to recover what little he had. "I-I just, I usually have to help my mom-"

"It's okay," Cameron said in concession, and turned back to her computer. She offered him one more glance, and then went to work. In all honesty, whatever complex programming dictated "wants" in Terminator systems enabled her to want his presence. Many infiltrator CPU's activated in learning mode needed human contact and things to do; otherwise their performance slowly dropped because of an unforeseen emergent factor, which Resistance programmers had dubbed "loneliness." As long as they worked with people, or in killing them, "_Learn_inators" worked at optimal efficiency. But given long periods of time without much contact and much progress in objectives – as Cameron'd experienced for more than two months – their social capacities would start to slow down and their overall "dispositions" would appear more and more "depressed" until they became so saturnine that they actually drew attention, causing infiltration to fail. This is why Skynet did not like learning mode.

Also, she actually wanted John's help with the computer since she didn't know how to use the weird interface, and she couldn't play with lower-level functions lest she reveal too much about what she knew.

John, meanwhile, was ready to kill himself. _Did you see that? That didn't look like a ploy to bring you down._ _That looked like a _hot _and obviously _nice,_ but _disappointed_ girl, you fucktard. Go back into your Usenet group and stay there for the rest of your life, you socially inept armadillo. _

She ignored him for the rest of the day. By her readings in the matter, this was actually a way of getting him to feel remorseful for what he did, flipping her off like that. Now she _really_ didn't feel bad about it. Not only was she _incapable _of the bad feelings (so far), but she understood that John wasn't just apprehensive about other people because of his mother's warnings; he was apprehensive also because of his low self-esteem. Always it had been "I can't do this! I can't lead an army!" and it stemmed from something as basic as "I'm the new weird kid; no one's going to want to be associated with me." That had to change, though.

John felt her ignorance and it did bite at him. It stung, and it was his fault that it did, which made it sting even more.

* * *

Cameron went home after school. Of course, home is where the heart is, and to Cameron this meant a little shack in the middle of a sandy field, just a thirty-minute walk away from school. Here she kept the clothes that she bought, with thousands of dollars that she stored inside her body during the temporal displacement process. Nothing outside the bodily electric field that organic flesh produced could be transported with her, so she had to keep it internally.

When the Resistance fighters from the future were getting her equipped for the job, one of the men had joked that she should keep the cash in her breasts for maximum headroom, without bloodying the bills and tearing them up against her metallic endoskeleton. To the soldiers' shock and horror, she considered that an excellent idea, and with a substantial combat knife, she cut open her breasts to load in the funds. They stood gaping as the money increased her cup size, which was the most literal depiction of "using money to enlarge your breasts" that they'd ever seen. The big-mouthed soldier suddenly felt sorry for the girl-machine and her naiveté.

At least the plan worked well. With all her cash, she was able to get nice clothes, many bags, and lots of construction materials. Over a period of 73 days, she had built the shack in various iterations and at various locations, disassembling it and selling parts when she needed to move. Aesthetically, its exterior was never pleasant, but inside could always be found full plumbing, a television, and a very nice clothes cabinet to fit all her articles of clothing. Sometimes there was a cheap computer, and a telephone line. On one occasion she got herself some AOL – and this she truly regretted and never did again; this was 1999, and life was hell on AOL.

The current iteration of the shack was now a white-walled cube. At least it wasn't _dis_pleasing anymore, and people mostly ignored it instead of pointing out how butt-ugly it was. It had good plumbing as always, a couch, and a TV. There was her old computer, too – some random dial-up ISP now instead of the unholy ad-powered demon. As usual, there was no bed, because of that one line she once said to a teacher: "I don't sleep."

As she got into the shack, she locked the door behind her, closed the windows, and removed her clothes methodically, with a strange care for their neatness and integrity that only femininity, or feminine programming, could provide. She folded them with surgical precision and placed them in a plastic hamper, for later washing. Examining her naked form in a full-length mirror, seeking bruises, bumps or discolorations to eliminate, she found herself clean and went to the shower. The squeak of a knob brought cold water to bear, and she cleaned herself of daily dirt, dust and detritus. She didn't sweat and she rarely stank – bacteria weren't very fond of Terminators' organic bits – but she did get messy a lot in the endless sand of the state of New Mexico. Soap and shampoo came to add a nice scent to her skin and hair, and then a simple rinse finished the job.

She dried herself with a large towel and sought clothes from her nice cabinet. One of the things that most confused Resistance programmers was how to give her fashion sense. After all, she was to be in the field for much longer than other units, and she was made in the image of a very pretty teenage girl, the archetypical behavior of which involved not just lots of clothes, but lots of _good clothes_, and the proper combinations of them when exposed to the public. Crazier but more essential than any other infiltration routines, more crucial than combat programming, fashion sense became a prime topic of discussion among the programmers of Young John Connor's protector. And no one could figure it out, mostly because no one was alive who still_ had _a 1999 fashion sense.

The plan was simple: Feed Cameron_ Vogue_. After days of scavenging, a pile of the magazines was sent to the robot girl and she perused them with interest for many an hour, taking in more than a single image per second. She read the articles too; _This Fall's Hot New Look_ and _The Death of a Princess: Diana _became her Gospels. Eventually, during a combat diagnostic test by the programmers, she began talking about how _Vogue _editor-in-chief Anna Wintour was non-representatively elitist in her discussion of fashion, and how her control over the industry despite her not making her own clothes was illogical, and how her usage of fur was not only immoral but unstylish and overtly "50's-revival." This led the programmers to panic and take away the magazines from her.

Well, at least the end result was fashion sense. Cameron wore a nightgown, plopped down on her sofa, plugged in a pair of headphones to her TV, and flipped it on. For the rest of the night, she destroyed her CPU on the boob tube.

* * *

Cameron went to school the next day, and the first class was Chemistry. As her classmates shuffled into the classroom, she sat down where she'd always sat – next to where John was.

Meanwhile, John had been watching her as she sat down, and he played out in his head the scenario that he'd been working on since he flipped her off.

"I lied to you yesterday." She turned her head and saw John talking. "My dad doesn't sell insurance, he's dead." Ouch. "He was a soldier and he was killed on a mission."

Cameron responded with a surprised face and said, "I'm sorry." But she knew that already, didn't she?

"It's all right. My mom was pregnant with me when it happened. I never even knew him. So, it's all right." John had a cover story, sure, but this vagueness was just enough to keep him out of trouble. "My mom, she's…she's kinda uptight." No shit; understatement of the century right there. John laughed after realizing this. To alleviate, he explained further: "Actually, she's really uptight. She likes me to come home straight after school and hang out with her and that kind of thing, you know? I'm all she's got." He waited for her to react. _You're fucked or you're not, John Connor- I mean, John Reese._

Cameron paused as he did, and then broke the three-to-four second silence with "Thank you for explaining," which she loved saying. "It'll be our secret," she added with a smile.

John smiled back. _Good job, kid. At least reconciliatory measures work out for ya. _Now what happened to lying low again? Oh, wait! Didn't his mom ask him if he'd met any pretty girls at school just yesterday! That was a sign of approval!

In retrospect, Cameron should have been the one to flip him off, and then apologize later on, because realistically, no high school girl would have put up with that kind of depressing drama-venting shit from a kid like the good Savior here.

The bell rang, and Mr. Ferguson came in. He looked as healthy as a horse; definitely not ill. John and Cameron exchanged glances, remembering the first time they greeted each other in his class, and made little snickers.

This is where it all begins.


	3. IC's, Ice Cream, and Interaction

**Author: Hiya, readers! This chapter comprises a lot of randomness. Its writing is also changed a lot. Strangely simple. Randomly switching from long to short sentences. Lots of dialogue. Intentional. Sadly lacks humor.  
**

**The title refers to everything in the chapter. "IC's" are integrated circuits.**

**Next chapter will be better. I'll try, at least.**

* * *

**IC's, Ice Cream, and Interaction**

After class, Cameron was going to trudge home on her hick-town calf-high boots, when John caught up with her.

"Hey," he said, smiling as she slowed down and turned to face him. She smiled back, while a number of nearby particularly good-looking guys turned _their_ heads to look at the prettiest girl in the whole school, who was getting all buddy-buddy with the new, undreamy kid. What the hell did she see in that loser?

"Hi, John," she replied, still smiling.

"Are you doing anything now?" he asked.

"I was going to walk home…"

"Oh, all right. That's ok-"

"…but if you have anything in mind," she continued, "Maybe I can spare some time."

John beamed as they walked together. "Well, actually, I don't _have_ anything in mind. Unless you wanna…go back in there and learn that 'computer stuff.'" In John's mind, that really wasn't a bad idea; he liked computers and all. But the voice popped in his head again: _Oh, how sweet. Offering to teach Cameron about computers when she just freed up an unspecified amount of time to spend with you. Real smart, savior-boy. Maybe this is what almost got Skynet to take over the world: people like you messing it up._

Cameron laughed and grimaced. "Oh, no. I'm not going back there." She then drew up the memory of Future John teaching her what Young John liked to do, and what his interests were. "Ice cream?"

John's brow furrowed up a little. "Ice cream? Isn't that…I don't know. Isn't that a little, well, juvenile?"

"Childish pleasures should be celebrated when possible. You never know when it all ends." Seeing John's slightly surprised expression, she elaborated: "When childhood ends, that is." She also realized that she spoke a little too formally and mechanically, based on John's facial expression of a little confusion. Oh well, at least now he'd be kept on his toes by this pretty girl.

"I guess you're right." John actually loved the ice cream idea; he just wanted to sound all mature and shit. It looked like the girl was perfectly his type: happy-go-lucky and sweet. _And hot._ That strange mental voice didn't sound like him, and it had never said things that he listened to. In this equally strange case, however, he'd been oddly drawn to its advice and commentary. "So, any ice cream in mind?"

Cameron looked around, and there _was_ no ice cream in mind; she hadn't scouted out the local town much. "Do you wanna walk around, look for an ice cream joint?"

"Sure." They did.

* * *

A local deli provided the answer, for which John paid. They both got vanilla, the oh-so-commonly-encountered flavor on such excursions as between a young girl and a young boy. John relished the cold sweetness on his tongue, and sparkling tastes of little rainbow candy sprinkles accentuated the overall motif of plain vanilla.

Cameron, on the other hand, stared at her ice cream. She brought it close to her and tried to lick the tapered top, but that was a lossy affair that flung a piece of it to the table at which they sat. She tried licking one side, but that caused the opposite side to collapse.

"This ice cream is problematic," she said with a raised eyebrow.

John laughed lightly. "You don't get much ice cream, then?"

She looked at him, and then looked down at herself. "Trying to lose weight. Don't eat too much sugar. Follow the food pyramid. That's what they all say."

"Heh." That wasn't a very manly snort. "Figures," he said. Observing Cameron's futile attempts at the ice cream, he said, "When licking fails, biting is the next course of action."

Cameron did as advised and bit a chunk off the top of the white cone. No fall, and no spilling disaster. "Oh. Thank you."

"So, Cameron," John began. "Or Cam. Can I call you that?"

"I'm not an extrusion on a rotating wheel that strikes an extended lever along its path to produce downward force." Textbook definition.

John stared at her. "Uh, what?"

Cameron laughed. "That was a joke. You can call me Cam."

"Okay, a jok- _Oh! _A _cam_! As in camshaft. Right." John laughed too, somewhat amazed by her choice of humor. "You fix your dad's tractors or something?"

"Yes, sometimes. They're boring, though."

"Yeah, like my 'dad' and his 'insurance.'" They both laughed. Cameron spilled her ice cream.

* * *

They talked after Cameron got herself cleaned up, still seated at their table in the deli. It wasn't much conversation.

"You've been in New Mexico a long time?" John asked.

"All my life," Cameron replied. "You?"

"No. I skipped about the Midwest for a couple of years, with my mom, before I landed here a week ago."

"Is it hard being new?" Cameron tilted her head.

"Yeah. Kinda sucks for me, right?" John said, sharing another laugh with the pretty girl. _She looks great when she smiles._

"I like it here. It's not cold like the other states."

"Same here. I'm never going back to winter wonderlands."

"What do you like doing, John?" Cameron asked.

"Huh?"

"Hobbies. Interests."

"Oh. Well," he began with a grin, "as any inspection of me would suggest, I like computers."

"Cool. What else?"

"Um. Ice cream. Definitely." He nodded. "Actually, I've never really gotten down to something that I liked. Always moving around." He sighed. That was true enough. With his mom being such a "No one's ever safe" freak, and with that on-the-horizon good life with Charley Dixon just crumbling in a moment of the great Sarah Connor's fear of commitment, the chance for him to be _stable_, to have a normal life with normal hobbies and interests, was shuffled back into oblivion – where it would probably remain for the rest of his life.

"Are you okay?" Cameron asked him after he hadn't spoken for a while, noting the onset of sadness on his face.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He recovered a smile and shunned his old drama. "What about you? What do you like?"

"I fix my dad's tractors," she started. "Some people think it's funny that I do that."

"I don't. I think it's a great way to help him out." _That's what I'm talking about. A girl who can get down to business._ Okay, that _still _wasn't John's thought, but 'twas a very true thought anyway.

"Thank you. I also like Math."

"You…what?"

"I like Math."

"Well, that makes one of us."

"You don't like Math."

"No. Can you do mine?" He laughed, but then his face fell as he realized what he'd asked. _What the fuck kind of dumbass comment was that? Not even a social _gork (geek+dork) _of the highest caliber would make a dumbass comment like that. You ever heard of flamebait, John Reese? Check out IRC chatrooms; you'll find out what flamebait has in common with your dumbfuckery. _

"Show me," Cameron said anyway.

"You serious? I was…only kidding."

"Yes. I'd like to see."

John shrugged, and put his backpack on the table. Inside an expanding folder was a large wad of papers, many of which were marked with purple stamps that suggested EPIC FAIL. He gave Cameron one that was remarkably unblemished with the insignia of failure – but that was because it had been given just a few hours ago. "I don't get any of this," he said, laughing uneasily.

Cameron had barely a second to look at the paper when her pencil flew from her pocket. "Oh. This is okay. To get number one, you should graph the linear inequalities denoting the differing revenue/expenditure systems described, and the 'most efficient method' being asked for will be derivable through the simplex algorithm. If the situation described in the word problem were a real-world scenario, however, I think convex optimization would be a more realistic determinant, through Karmarkar's implementation. So just get the edges of the polygon formed by the linear constraints…" Cameron went on and on, drawing perfectly straight lines without a ruler, and writing with such perfect flourishes of her pencil that John could only stare. "…and there we go." Ten seconds flat for a problem that most high schoolers her age would've taken about a minute to complete – without all the weird chatter about using advanced techniques that weren't even going to be taught in their year level. "Did that help?"

John looked at the scribbles – no, the _line art­_ – on his paper. "Wow. I didn't get any of that. But you're good."

Cameron giggled. "Yeah. It helps with the tractors."

* * *

They walked out of the deli. John told a joke. Cameron didn't laugh because she didn't get it.

"It's not really the joke that's funny, but the fact that it's so racist," John tried to explain.

"Racism isn't funny."

"And that's why the joke is funny – because its subject matter isn't."

Cameron frowned. "I'm sorry. I still don't understand, but thank you for trying to explain."

"Yeah," John said. "Guess I didn't tell it well enough or something."

"I should probably go home."

"Oh. Uh, yeah, me too, I guess."

"Thank you for the ice cream."

"Thanks for the time. It was great." _The time. It was great. Great time. Had a great time. Rephrase next time._

"Yes. It was." She smiled, showing her teeth. John melted a little.

"See you tomorrow?" Cameron asked.

"Sure!" His reply was enthusiastic. Maybe a little too much so. "I mean, great."

"Yeah." Cameron looked at him for a number of seconds that psychologically extended themselves to a time that was considerably longer.

John's eyes met her gaze. She often did this, looking at him quietly for long periods of time. Was she waiting for something? Hell, he'd messed up badly the day before…and even then, they'd just met and all.

"Bye," Cameron said after her gazing was done, and did an about-face, to walk in the general direction of her house.

John would have said "Cam, wait!" but he held himself back. What would he say to the girl, right?

He walked home.

* * *

Home is where the heart is, but Cameron didn't have a heart. Then again, "heart" is really just a metaphor that associates the blood-pumping muscle with emotions and feelings because of how the heart responds to them. Cameron didn't have emotions either, though, so the shack that served as her shelter was just that – a shack.

Based on her projections and analyses, John was attracted to her. As she gazed at him before she left, his eyes would almost invisibly flicker to her lips and cheeks. The next time they met up, she'd remember to take this into account.

She was being very forward. This would condition John to her forwardness so that he wouldn't be freaked out when, very early into their "friendship," she'd do something curious.

His responses to her various idiosyncrasies were better than expected. Maybe he felt a oneness with her weirdness. Cameron wanted to get rid of her semi-funny semi-eccentric attitude, towards the goal of more effective infiltration, but if this is what turned John on, then she'd keep it on.

Advanced infiltrators in learning mode would often develop preferences to random things, like drinks and clothes and guns, as long as they didn't detract from efficiency. Cameron liked ice cream now.

She was also starting to like John.

Huh?


	4. Meet the Parent

**Author: Hi. Read. Review. Please. Thanks.**

* * *

**Meet the Parent**

Chemistry class again on Friday, and the movement of electrons to more energetic orbitals because of photonic absorption was of no interest to John Reese. Neither was the boring Mr. Ferguson who hovered before the blackboard and droned endlessly about this topic.

Instead, his focus was on Cameron Phillips, seated next to him. Together they hummed and murmured in soft voices, and chatted (hopefully) indiscernibly. Of course, nearby classmates were aware of their colloquy, but what the heck? Everyone was too lethargic to care about anything going on in class.

Cameron said something that made John snicker, and she snickered with him. And Mr. Ferguson noticed.

"Mr. Reese and Ms. Phillips," he began. "The two of you seem to be having a very engaging dialogue in my class." Students laughed left and right despite the air of sleepy. "Would you care to share the source of your humor?"

John and Cameron looked at each other, and John looked away. _You're fucked, John. No sense in hiding; just come clean, come forward, take the flak, and wait outside the principal's off-_

"I'm sorry, sir," Cameron said as she stood up. "I was just pointing out to Mr. Reese here-" She pointed to John. "-that your usage of the data capacities of CDs versus DVDs as a descriptor of absorption spectra is incorrect." She said this with no embarrassment or fear in her voice. Just a solid statement of the obvious – of course, obvious to fucking nerds.

"Really, now, Ms. Phillips? Would you care to explain why?" His eye twitched very noticeable.

"Yes. I would."

"Then do so."

"The average CD-ROM recorded under the ISO 9660 standard may contain up to 703.1 MiB of data, while a DVD-ROM recorded under the ISO/IEC 13346 derivation, UDF, may contain 4.4 GiB of data. This is not because DVD's different laser color results in higher-order photon absorption and thus higher-density generation of pits across the data surface; rather, it is because the 650nm DVD laser has a smaller wavelength than the 780nm CD laser, thus allowing smaller depressions to be created and read on the data surface – to be specific, DVD-ROMs have 1.32-micrometer pits, while CD-ROMs have 2.11-micrometer pits. Since data is recorded based on the changeover from a pit to a flat surface or vice versa, a higher density of data pits results in a higher data storage capacity."

And there was silence. Everyone stared at her. Everyone _had been staring at her_ as she spoke. That included John, and that most notably included Mr. Ferguson, who was gaping slightly at the sudden burst of knowledge from the normally quiet Cameron Phillips.

"I…see. Thank you, Ms. Phillips, for that…enlightenment. Please share such with me next time before you do so with your seatmate."

"Okay." She sat down and began writing on her notebook.

John turned to her. "Hey. What was that?"

She looked to him and smiled. "Just seemed like something I should do."

"Yeah…wow. I don't know anyone else who knows about CD-ROM standards and stuff- hey! Didn't you say that you don't know anything about computers?"

"I did. This wasn't exactly computers."

"Well, yeah, but…"

"Shh. Mr. Ferguson is watching."

"Oh, right."

* * *

Hey," John called out to Cameron, after the wholly boring day. She'd just come from her Mathematics class, and John had come from his.

She turned her head back to him, and said, "Hi."

"Thanks for yesterday's Math help. I think I actually passed this quiz today."

"Oh, don't mention it. Rational algebraic expressions are very easy."

"Easy for you, right?"

"No, just easy."

They sat together at a picnic table just outside the school cafeteria. John ate an egg sandwich. Cameron ate an ice cream cone.

"Every time I see you here," John said as he watched her eat. "You're eating ice cream. Weren't you trying to lose weight or something?"

"Why? Do I look fat?" She pouted at him.

"No! I mean…no. I just, I was curious."

"Oh. I like ice cream."

"Anything else? And if not, any other _flavor?_" Cameron'd been eating nothing but vanilla ice cream, too.

"Not really."

"Oh, all right." He paused. "So, what was with that ISO 9660 stuff back there?"

"I read a lot."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I read in my spare time. Anything I can get my hands on."

"I don't think you can get the specs of CDs and stuff like that from just any book…" John thought about a list of the kinds of books that would give the information she detailed earlier.

"No. Not just any book."

"Yeah. Pretty hard stuff too."

"Yes."

"So…if you can read and understand this, then what's with the scared-of-computers thing? You could probably do it easy."

"I'm afraid that they'll turn on their creators and blow up the world or something."

John was taken aback. "What did you say?"

"I'm afraid that they'll turn on their creators and blow up the world or something

_Okay, what the hell. Coincidence. Get your shit together._ He laughed. "Hah. I don't think that's happening."

"Yeah, probably not." She laughed too. "They're just kinda freaky. So many things to memorize about them."

"You do pretty well with math."

"Math is easy."

"Computers are easy."

"Easy for you?" Cameron asked.

"No, just easy."

"Show me sometime."

"Okay."

* * *

She was done with her ice cream. He was done with his egg sandwich. He hoped to walk with her. She would probably walk with him.

Another _she_ came in before either of them could do anything.

"John," _her _voice arrived at her subject's ears. And he stood up. Quickly.

"Mom!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

Sarah Connor – error. Sarah _Reese_ kissed his forehead. "I was on my way back from the grocery and thought I'd pick you up instead of having you walk home."

Cameron was still sitting down, looking up at John's mother.

"Why don't you introduce me to your friend, John?" Sarah smiled at her son. Pretty girl.

"Oh." John shuffled his feet for a few seconds. "Cameron, this is my mom. Mom, this is Cameron Phillips."

"Nice to meet you, Cameron," Sarah said, smiling again as Cameron stood up.

"Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Reese." She shook Sarah's hand.

"Nice grip."

"It comes from fixing tractors."

"Hmm. Hands-on girl. You remind me of me." She turned to John, who smiled uneasily.

Sarah's eyes flicked between John and Cameron, and caught them throwing corner glances at each other. She thought for a moment, contemplating the pros and cons of her current thought, and then looked at her wristwatch. "I think I'll go buy myself something from the cafeteria, John. You mind waiting here for a bit?"

"Oh, no, it's all right," John's rapid response came.

"Good." Sarah looked back at him as she went inside the building. He'd immediately gotten down to talking to the girl, and they were quite enthusiastic with one another. Finally, John had made a good friend at school. Well, to be fair to him as well, he'd never really had a good opportunity to befriend anyone or get it on with a girl; always moving, always jumping. Always...well, always unsafe, because no one's ever safe, right?

Not even now. Too bad for John and this Cameron girl, then.

* * *

"Your mom doesn't look uptight," Cameron expressed.

"Yeah, well she's a lot of things that she doesn't look like." _Like maybe a gun-toting Amazon_. _Or the mother of the Savior of mankind. _"I'm going to go buy something. I'll be back.

"Okay."

As John left, Sarah returned – from the other cafeteria exit. She sat beside where John had been sitting, and looked at Cameron.

"You boys and girls get very good food there," Sarah said, pointing a thumb in the direction of the caf.

"Yes, but it makes us all look fat."

"God forbid," Sarah replied with a laugh. "How long have you known John?"

"I greeted him on the first day of classes. So one week and four days."

"Are you, uh, classmates? Lab partners?"

"I share Chemistry, Computer, and Communication Arts with John. I also help him with his Math."

"You help John with Math? _My _John needs help in Math? Why is this new to me?"

"John doesn't do very well in that subject. He told me."

"Well, then, it looks like now we both know the same thing." Sarah sighed.

"He says that you're uptight."

"Well, you know boys, I'm sure. They say things about their mothers."

"I know boys. I know John."

"I'm sure you do." Sarah smiled. "I'll tell you a secret. I'm not uptight; _John _is."

"Why is this _not_ new to me?" Cameron said. They both laughed.

John arrived a few minutes later. He saw Cameron and his mother laughing together and chatting. _Look, mom likes her. Fucking score, man. Fucking score._

Sarah saw him leave the cafeteria and at this she stood up. "Hey. Your friend here tells me that you have a Math problem."

John's eyes widened a bit, and he sighed as he looked at Cameron with displeased eyes. "Oh, come on. You didn't."

"But I help you. So your problem is fixed." Cameron smiled. And how could he be mad at such a pretty smile?

"Yes, that does fix your problem, John," Sarah said. "But why didn't you tell me before? Tutoring classes are available, you know."

"I…look, can we talk about this when we get home, mom?" He frowned.

"All right. But we _are_ talking about this." Sarah made sure that her face transmitted a solid message. "Bye, Cameron. It was nice talking to you." She walked over to her truck, and got in on the driver's side.

"Bye, Cameron," John said, and was about to leave as well, when he felt a strong hand close over his arm, stopping him from leaving. He knew it was Cameron – but that was _really _strong.

"Oh, John," she said.

"Yeah?"

"I'll be gone over the weekend and next week to visit my grandparents. But when I get back, do you want come over to my house? You can finally teach me that computer stuff you promised to help me with."

_SHE INVITED YOU TO HER HOUSE. WHAT DO YOU SAY, JOHN REESE? WHAT DO YOU SAY? DON'T FUCK IT UP!_

"Sure, that'd be great." John smiled. "I'd really like that."

"And I can help you with your Math too. I hope you survive next week without me."

"I'll manage. Thanks, Cam. See you next week." He left her, and got into the car with his mom.

Cameron smiled at him and waved as he left, then she ran home. Very quickly.

* * *

Home is where the heart is. But this place where the heart resides, while an important factor in anyone's life, is not necessarily an aesthetically attractive place.

For the most part, though, it was. And that is why Cameron was going to remake the shack in seven days.

First, a phone call.

"Hello. Caterpillar, Inc.? I would like to rent some equipment. No crew necessary. Delivery only."


	5. Creationism

**Author: Due to writer's block on TPotS, I wrote this for I Could Have Been More. IT's not a very good chapter, sorry! There really isn't much material for this part. Later parts, esp. ones with John/Cam in close proximity in the house, I'll try to make them better. Sorry if I disappoint this time around! :(**

* * *

**Creationism**

It wasn't the blue jumpsuit, or the rolled-up sleeves, or the trucks and trucks of materials, or the huge, Caterpillar heavy equipment vehicles stacked up in one corner of the field.

No, it was the very bright, yellow hard hat on her head that made Cameron Phillips into something entirely different – entirely appropriate for rebuilding the place where her heart was supposed to lie. Everyone who was _anyone_ had a nice house, and Cameron would need something more than a little whitewashed cube to please John Reese.

For the average kid her age? If she didn't want to show someone her real house, then she'd take 'em somewhere else. But Cameron wasn't your average kid. Hell, you could argue that she wasn't even a kid.

"Lady, I'm looking for the guy who ordered this stuff," a burly man with a Caterpillar, Inc. ID had said to her just hours before.

"I ordered this equipment."

"How old are you, sixteen? Do you even know how to operate these things?"

"Yes, very well. I can build a working scale model if you like."

"Uh, no thanks. Look, just sign here, and call if there are any problems, all right?"

"Thank you."

The burly man left very confused.

* * *

The longest journeys begin with a single step, it is said. And therefore, in the beginning, Cameron created the shack, and it was without a decent form, and she wanted to gain the approval of John and Sarah Reese.

And Cameron said nothing, but moved levers, and behold, there was an excavation in the ground where once stood a shack. And she saw how good it was, massive and sturdy on the face of the Earth. This was where her heart would reside for her stay in this Time.

Darkness followed when the terrain was sculpted according to her will. And the foundations of her new house spelled out the first day.

There had been few onlookers on the first day, but that was because no one knew a) what was going on; b) who was building what. When the first curious observers stopped by to look, they saw all manner of heavy equipment being lined up for usage, and assumed that a major construction project was about to take place. But when they observed just that one little girl doing everything, suddenly the rewinding of analog film cameras became very apparent.

Words and sentences were apparent too, like "There's a big new hole in the ground!" and also "Wasn't there a tiny little house there before, and isn't that the owner of that tiny little house who's using that big excavator machine thing?"

Come nightfall, most had left, but with the intent to return the next day. It was too curious an event to pass up.

* * *

And Cameron said nothing, but twisted dials, poured semi-liquid mixtures, and set up metal molds throughout the new hole in the ground – and behold, there was a concrete base. She then made steel bars in the ground, and wooden stakes like posts, and the base of the house was ready. Her house was ready to ascend to the skies, and Cameron saw how good this was.

Many watchers had been wondering about the safety of this girl, but when they saw her carry a 350-pound weight in her arms, they were shamed by their lack of confidence in this architect.

Darkness followed when the pillars of her new house were laid, and it was the second day.

* * *

And Cameron said nothing, but drove her trucks of wood, steel, and glass to the site. She took her arc welder and the other chattels of construction that she bore, and she was making the skeletal framework of her house. And Cameron saw how good it was; everything was made to perfection, and behold, the framework alone looked like something one could already live in.

Viewers of this curious sight took pictures and videos of the oblivious girl, who slowly formed her house with stunning speed and with only her working on everything. The new construction looked to be three stories in height, and very wide.

Darkness followed when the substructure was completely formed, and it was the third day.

* * *

And this time, Cameron said "cedar shakes" and it was done. Her mastery of the levers and heavy lifting led to the completion of a reddish, efficient roof made of overlapping tiles of wood. And Cameron saw how good this was, because no good house visitation saw rain seeping through the roof. John would be pleased.

Observers predicted a country-style house now that the girl's roofing was complete. Overall the thing looked like a fairly standard foray into suburban house design.

But Cameron was not done for the day. She proceeded to say nothing, and then added glass walls and exposed, shiny steel supports. She included a wooden porch, a Victorian-style banister for its railings, and a La-Z-Boy for the porch's rocking chair.

And Cameron said nothing, but embedded within her home the necessary electrical wiring and plumbing, and all the lights of the place were made to work. She did this with lightning speed and no mistakes, despite the hugeness of her house. And Cameron saw how good everything was, simply because it all worked.

Darkness followed, but Cameron's house was lit up with new lights now, and it was the fourth day.

* * *

And Cameron looked on the walls and said nothing, but removed them for they did not match what she saw in her magazine. She replaced them with a stony exterior, and added large plates of glass between walls. The whole affair was very pretty and shiny, and she saw how good it was.

By now, there was a lot of discussion as to what the girl's plan for her house was. It was something of a hybrid; Victorian influences were interspersed with clear country derivations for the façade, but a more modern, glassy approach went together with classic stone exteriors for the upper levels. The roof was a strange contrast to this structure of contrasts.

Actually, Cameron was just reading different pages for different parts of her house, so it was really just an uncreative, opportunistic hodgepodge of architectural principles. But what outsiders thought was that it was a work of postmodern genius, a fall_forward_ to arbitrary selections of design eras; placing them in a vertical stack was apparently intended to emphasize some kind of symbolic timeline of style.

Darkness followed when she replaced her walls with sturdier and more appropriate panels, and it was the fifth day.

* * *

And Cameron said nothing, and brought to her house all manner of home appliances – televisions, gas ranges, a refrigerator, a microwave oven, air conditioners and more – and also such things as a couch in front of the TV, and a dining table for eight people, and many nice beds. She made the whole setup look as though a family of five fit there. Her decorations were inspired by interior design magazines. The curtains were very good.

Skeptics who saw what sort of stuff she moved in said that she wasn't a very good chooser of furniture. Why mix a chartreuse couch with a beige set of throw pillows? It didn't make sense.

But when there was the brief opportunity to peer inside, whenever the curtains were open on her immense windows, there was always mental applause for Cameron. She was a genius. Nothing could have prepared the outsiders for such a controversial and yet effective take on interior design. It was like a feng shui wave that didn't come with mystical spiritual connotations.

In truth, though, she just bought everything that was at least 35 off at the local furniture store.

Darkness followed when the last of the furniture was fully moved in, and it was the sixth day.

* * *

The seventh day saw her returning to school, for it was a Friday. Cameron gave her excuse letter to Mr. Ferguson of Chemistry fame, who greeted her with an odd smile.

"Hey," said a familiar voice next to her as she sat down.

"Hi, John," she responded.

John smiled at her. "You were gone a while. How was it?"

"Very good," she said and smiled back. "My grandparents are fine. I also ate lots of ice cream."

"That's great," he said. "Ice cream. And your grandparents."

"Shh," she suddenly shushed at him. "Mr. Ferguson is watching."

They sat down together after all classes for their meal together.

"How was Math, John?" Cameron asked.

"Oh. Math. It was, uh…"

"Don't tell me. You passed every quiz."

"No, more of like…well, if pass means I didn't get a score of zero…"

"What happened?"

"Well, I, uh…failed every test."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Looks like I need you after all, right?" John laughed, and then his voice quickly died down. _"I need you after all?" What's wrong with you, kid? Look before you leap! You don't keep this pretty girl around for math help, do you? She's a friend! And a hot one! Dumbass!_

"Right," Cameron responded mercifully. She didn't flip him off! "So John, are you still up for going to my house later?"

_And you forgot that offer. Smart move, John._ "Oh no…damn it, I forgot to ask my mom."

"Ask me what, John?" Now _that_ was scary. Sarah Reese could teleport?

"MOM!" John said as he jumped out of his seat.

"Hi, Mrs. Reese," Cameron said daintily.

"Hello, Cameron. Welcome back. Good trip to your grandparents'?"

"Yes, very. I had lots of ice cream and memories."

"Both are good for you. Now what's this, John?"

"What are you doing here, mom?"

"I like the meals here. Thought I'd have one myself." She sighed, and then asked again; "Now what's this, John?"

John looked uneasily at the two females staring at him, then turned to his mom. "Cameron's…uh, she's invited me over to her house. Computer class help for her, and math help for me."

"Why not?" Sarah answered immediately.

"I…uh. Wait. Really?" John was incredulous, and it showed on his face.

"Yeah. You haven't gone out much, John," Sarah said to her disbelieving son.

Oh boy, was he in disbelief. _Are these two working together? Since when's my mom not been so uptight?_

"Thanks, Mrs. Reese," Cameron said with a bright smile on her face. "I'll take care of your son. Although my parents are out for a few days and we'll be the only ones in the house…" John's heart skipped a beat at that. "…I can cook for us. And it's a safe neighborhood."

"Good." Sarah beamed. "Don't stay too late, John. You don't want to impose on your friend."

"Oh, what? No, no of course not." John laughed.

"I'll see you later tonight, then, John," Sarah said, and winked. She left the two for her truck, and drove off.

"Yeah…" John tapped his fingers on the table. "Why is she nice?" he asked himself about his mom.

"She's not uptight," Cameron said. "_You_ are."

"_What?"_ he asked back.

"That's what she said."

"Well…" John scratched his head. That was partially true. A lot of his mom's apparent authoritative nature was actually John's own choice to see his mom like an Amazon queen, and him being too meek, in a sense, to change anything that she said.

"Let's go, John," Cameron suddenly said and pulled him off his seat so that they could walk to her house. It was only half an hour away.

* * *

"Holy shit," John observed when he saw the house.

"I get that reaction a lot," Cameron stated matter-of-factly. "Why's that?"

"That is one hell of a house," John said. _The girl must have hidden riches somewhere…Christ this thing is a work of art._

"We can go inside."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. This is my house."

"I know…" John still stared up at the three stories of magnificence. "It's…really, a really nice house."

"Thank you. I built it."

"_What?"_ John almost yelled back.

"I had it built. Took a few months but it was worth it in the end."

Cameron took John's hand, and suddenly he was very warm all over his body. Her touch was really soft.

"Let's go inside."

He complied. They went inside.

Therefore, on the seventh day, Cameron rested.


End file.
